Space Between Lungs
by TaylorThe-Not-SoGreat
Summary: "A silence formed between us, and rapidly became too thick to penetrate. I wanted to apologize, spill my guts and let him comfort me, but I couldn't. My words would just be lost in the space between us."


Space Between Lungs-

_vague mention of an eating disorder, less vague mention of self harm, somewhat obvious mention of Phan _

I regarded my fingernails with a critical eye. The skin underneath was a deep purple, almost black color. My actual nails were peeling off, leaving only a short, flimsy layer behind. I clasped my hands together, attempting to stop them from shaking. I shifted nervously in my seat, trying not to wince at the pain that shot from my thighs.

One of my classmates was attempting to make conversation with me. I nodded mutely at his words, refusing to contribute his small talk. I never understood the urge to be constantly connected with someone. Small talk was just pointless banter to fill silence. It's a shame really. If people would just shut up and listen, they would learn so much more. Small talk wouldn't lift the burden of this secret I held. Maybe if this kid would close his mouth and open his eyes, he might have noticed something deeper than the brand on my shoes. Then again, he probably wouldn't care even if he had noticed.

I looked up for the first time since I sat in my desk. My eyes locked on Phil's shape without my permission. He looked good today, just like every day. I pulled my lip in between my teeth as he threw his head back in laughter. I wanted to trace the small lines that formed his smile. I forced my eyes to the window, noting the gray coloring of a stereotypical English afternoon.

I ran my thumb over the skin if my right wrist. The majority if the skin was scabbed over, already healing. However when I pulled my hand away, I noticed the faint red tint if blood on my finger. Half of the time I didn't even realize I was scratching myself. The rest if the time I felt a rush, a perverse but undeniably real sensation. Although it wasn't the same as a blade, it soothed me enough while under the public eye.

The bell rang, pulling me from my reverie. I moved slowly as I exited the classroom, sluggish in my hunger fueled trance. My feet felt like they were walking a foot above the ground. The dizziness made me feel light, almost like I was floating in the breeze. I settled into my assigned biology seat, attacked by the realization that I would be forced to sit next to Phil for an hour. Without touching him. Without talking to him. Without being loved by him.

He walked in several minutes late, walking in with the quiet confidence that he wouldn't be questioned. He didn't bother to explain himself to the teacher, (as expected) he just sunk into his seat next to me. I watched from the corner of my eye as he shifted to the far edge of his seat, as far away from me as possible. I mentally cursed my teacher for having a set seating chart all year. This was obviously torturous for both us, if not for different reasons.

Our biology teacher was a short old man, with a hell of alot more belly than hair. He talked agonizingly slowly, continually using phrases and words I couldn't (and honestly wouldn't) understand. I was hyper aware of Phils arm being only inches from mine, only two thin layers of fabric away. I listened to his shallow breathing, wishing he would at least turn to look at me. Somehow just acknowledge my presence. Finally the teacher finished his speech, and assigned an extensive assignment I probably wouldn't do. Phil turned to me:

"What's wrong with your hand?" His voice was low, his eyes were locked on my wrist. I quickly pulled down the edge of my sleeve, annoyed that broken ski was the only thing that could catch his attention. I stumbled for an appropriate answer, caught off guard by his sudden questioning.

** "My hand?" I played dumb, studying the hand opposite if where he was looking.  
"Your wrist," he gave me a knowing look. I made a sound of protest as he lightly tugged on my sleeve, dragging the fabric over my irritated flesh.  
"Nothing," I pulled my arm out of sight. I glanced around the classroom, relieve when I noticed everyone else was engrossed in the wonders if the natural world. The last thing I need was someone else knowing.  
"Dan," he gave me a pleading look. I didn't really understand what he wanted from me. So what if I had a few scratches on my wrist? They weren't as bad as the deep scars hidden underneath. Why should he care now, when he's been ignoring me for weeks?  
"Don't worry about it, Phil," keeping my voice even was becoming increasingly difficult. Could he tell that I was shaking? I hated that he still had such a strong affect on me.  
"Are you eating?" I folded my arms over my chest, trying to hid myself. I felt his critical eye roam down my body, thinking of all the glaring flaws he would see. I wanted to scream at him to look away, to find something for interesting to look at. I never wanted him to see my fat and ugly body. **

"Of course," I lied. Everything's a lie now. He didn't look very convinced.

** "I don't believe you."  
"Then don't. I don't really give a shit," I snapped. He didn't react, just stared forward with a blank expression. A silence formed between us, and rapidly became too thick to penetrate. I wanted to apologize, spill my guts and let him comfort me, but I couldn't. My words would just be lost in the space between us.  
I tried to make myself look busy until the bell rang. I could feel his eyes on me. I wanted him to say something. I wanted him to tell me that heartily loved me, and that I was worthy of him. I also silently prayed that he wouldn't say a word.  
He didn't. **


End file.
